Art of the Damned
by joannatheraptor
Summary: An estranged artist discovers a bizar box that may hold the key to her inspiration, or the key to her destruction. based more so on the original novel by Clive Baker than the actual movie


Art of the Damned

**By Lindsay Anthony**

**A Short Something****-****or****-****other Inspired by Clive Baker****'****s novella **

'_**The Hell Bound Heart**__**'**_

Part 1

Fade in from black. The setting is an art museum, and down one of the many long stretches of hallway we see a group of young eight-year olds visiting on a field trip. They make their way down the hall toward some unseen exhibit, passing by several Francis Bacon paintings along the way. Abigail Marsh is in the very back of the hustling crowd, and stops to view the paintings, ignoring as her class rounds a corner and disappears out of sight.

Abigail stands before the Francis Bacon paintings, her neck craned so she can better observe them. She seems deeply fascinated with the strange works.

Taking a closer look at her we realize that she appears normal enough (a mundane child with a mundane face, nothing out of the ordinary), and that she acts the way any normal child would, but by no means does she _think_ normally. This is not to say that she harbors some unseen disease of the brain, or mental inability to contemplate reality correctly. One could simply say that the way she perceives the world around her is very different from the way any other ordinary person might. She is a fledgling artist, and one might compare her to Picasso and his talent for viewing life in a kind of refracted state, but then again no—with Abigail it is stranger still.

For a long time she gazes up at the Francis Bacon paintings, transfixed by their depictions of revealing gore and sensuality. Never before has she seen such images; body parts bound and flayed open exposing their bloody interiors, ghostly white ribs set against deep red sacks of flesh, mutilated skin and genitalia, and mouths open in a gape of unclear expression. We cannot tell what she is thinking as she views these works, for her face reads no clear emotions, but we understand that, somehow, the paintings are having a deep effect on her. She stares at them endlessly, their impact touching deep down into her soul, until finally her teacher (having realized her missing from the class) appears back at the end of the hallway and angrily beckons for her to rejoin her fellow peers. She hangs her head guiltily, her eyes leaving the paintings, and obeys. Her teacher scolds her as they walk but she does not hear. Her mind is someplace else—still with Francis Bacon, and she is contemplating the realization that her eyes will now be forever open to the artistic beauty that the combination of plain and pleasure offers . . .

Fast-forward about twenty years.

We see a thirty one year old Abigail Marsh sitting on her knees in front of a door in her basement. She is average height, owning a petite frame and pale color that gives her the appearance of a woman malnourished and sickly. Her eyes are a deep chestnut brown, almost black, but in certain types of light a shimmer of bright ruby can be seen flickering within them. Her hair, short snarled and scraggly, looking very unkempt in a done-up bun (a do that makes her look far older than she really is), matches the color of her dress and socks. She is, by all accounts, a rather ugly looking specimen. However, it could be said that if certain events in her life had not had the outcome that they had, she would perhaps be relatively attractive—maybe even beautiful.

On the other side of the door her husband, Robert, shouts obscenities and various threats in an attempt to make her release him from her art studio. She clutches the keys to the door in one hand, her other hand resting on a sketchpad that is lying on her lap. Her face is pressed up against the door. She is leaning forward and eagerly peering into the keyhole.

"Just solve the fucking puzzle box, Bob." She mutters, partially aggravated and partially amused.

Through the keyhole she watches as her husband flips her the bird and then angrily heaves himself against the door. He is a heavy overweight man, much larger than she is by all aspects, and much stronger. The corners of her mouth upturn into a miniature smile as she watches him struggle to get free. She is entertained by his effort, by his rage. He has always been an angry man—a crude, repulsive alcoholic dissatisfied by his own stupidity (or, rather, angry at the world in general for owning more of an intellect then himself), dissatisfied by his lack of ability to produce children, dissatisfied by his dead-end job, and far more than anything else, dissatisfied by _her_.

He smashes against the door yet again. She knows he wants to get out quite badly, but little does he know that not only has she locked him in, but she has also nailed three large two-by-fours across the frame of the door, hindering him from ever being able to break it down.

She lets out a weary sigh as her husband lets out screams of fury, and turns her attention down to the watch on her wrist. It is almost three in the morning. She leans back on her haunches for a moment and wonders how it all came to this . . .

All she wanted was to make art.

All she wanted was to share the beauty of pain and pleasure.

All she wanted was her own exhibit in a _real_ art museum.

All she wanted was to be a _real_ artist instead of just some mediocre art teacher at a High School in the middle of Nowhere, Indianapolis.

But what she had gotten was a faculty, along with numerous angry parents of disturbed students, who found her brands of Sadomasochistic art (sculptures of people being stabbed by blunt hooks, sketches featuring individuals tangled in nets of barbed wire and covered head to toe with sewing pins, drawings and paintings of animals cut open and torn apart) disgusting and controversial. Luckily she had managed to keep her job due to her talent in being able to teach even the most dimwitted students the differences between analogous and tertiary colors.

However, having a job teaching art didn't necessarily mean she was happy.

For the past five years she had been in a slump, having run into somewhat of a creative dry spell. Whether it was the boredom of living in Indianapolis, or the complete lack of inspiration anything else in her life had to offer, she had become unable to produce the beautiful depictions of pain and pleasure she so cherished.

To make matters worse, Robert showed little to no respect for her whatsoever, despite the fact that _she_ was the one who kept the house clean and made the _real_ income in the marriage. Every now and again he would delight in criticizing her failures, despite his own lack of decent skills or successes. He would manage at every turn to show his immense disapproval with her fascination in the sadomasochistic—lowering her self-esteem with each cruel remark. And some nights, when he would come home too drunk to be able to verbally insult, he would turn to physical abuse.

Perhaps it was his own way of expressing his jealousy. He had every right to feel belittled by a woman who was smarter and more successful (although not by much) than he was. However, taking it out on her in such damaging ways was not the correct answer.

But what had she to do? There was nowhere to turn—she had no immediate family, at least nobody that wasn't already six feet under, and she knew that if she tried to tell people they would just say she brought it on herself; say that she liked being the _submissive_ one, that she liked having the life beaten out of her either emotionally or physically, that that was what she got off on. Besides, even if she did somehow manage to get away from Robert, who else would have her? Who else would have the woman who appeared normal on the outside, but viewed 'blood and guts' as artistic beauty on the inside? No one. And she knew it.

And she had known it for years—she had known it on the day she walked into the old gallery downtown with three of her lesser paintings under her arm, intending to sell them in order to bail Robert out of jail after he'd gotten into a fight at some bar and been arrested for public assault. (Funny how he could get in trouble for beating somebody else up after drinking, some perfect stranger he didn't even know, and then suffer no consequences whatsoever after smacking her around for several hours in the privacy of their own home.)

She had known it when the dealer, some mysterious old woman with gray eyes, asked her what her pleasure was, and she had known it when she, unable to stop herself, organically told the dealer that she wanted Robert dead and her creativity to return.

That was when it all changed.

That was when the dealer showed her the puzzle box.

She had recognized it almost instantly from her past research on sadomasochistic lour, and was not at all surprised when the dealer told her that it was fabled to, when solved, bring forth a sensation greater than both pain and pleasure combined.

But it was when she got to hold it, when her shaking fingers laced around the legendary Lemarchand Configuration, that she realized that it was the answer she had been searching for—that, with it's help, she could cure her lack of inspiration and once again create beautiful masterpieces depicting the idiosyncrasy of pain and pleasure. That by using it she could rid herself of Robert _and_ possibly get her own show in a real art museum, maybe even in New York.

She had bought the contraption—traded her artwork for it, surprised that the dealer hadn't asked for more from her, or that it hadn't equaled a higher price. And that night she had gone home and asked Robert to open it. Of course she didn't tell him what it was, only that she needed him to open it for her.

Initially he had refused, so she went about it a second time, this time playing on his bigotry (or what he thought of as male pride), telling him that she was just a frail little girl and that she needed somebody big and strong and smart like him to solve the odd contraption. Once again, though, he denied her his help. So finally she began to beg him, plead for him to solve it, saying at last that it was a rare aphrodisiac and that it could cure their marital troubles if he would only just solve it.

This attempt, however, resulted in a black eye, as Robert took offense to her implications that their sex-life was basically non-existent (even though it was).

So finally, knowing there were no other options available, Abigail went to a nearby pharmacy, purchased a new bottle of fast-action sleeping pills, and, upon returning home offered Robert a beer that he later described as 'funny tasting'.

She had had quite some time dragging his enormous body down to the basement, not really caring that his head hit each step as she traveled down the steep flight of stairs. After removing all of her valuable art pieces out of her basement studio (all the room in the house Robert allotted her to work on her 'fucked up' art, as he called it), she secured him inside along with the puzzle, afterward locking and nailing the door shut.

She then she had positioned herself outside the door, sketchpad and charcoal pencil in hand. She was aptly ready to absorb the inspiration that was sure to come once Robert solved the box . . .

And so now here she sits, seven hours later, listening to Robert as he finally gives in and tells her that he'll solve the 'fucking puzzle box', adding that, after she lets him out, he will give her a 'sound thrashing'.

Upon hearing this Abigail smirks, as she knows very well just _who_ will soon be getting the 'sound trashing'.

She leans in, staring hard through the keyhole. Her hand is poised above the sketchpad, the charcoal pencil clutched excitedly in her fingers. Her imagination races, dreaming of the sights she'll soon see. She cannot picture them, only hope that they are all she dreams they'll be.

She watches, eyes wide and fervent as Robert takes the box in his hands and begins to toy with it, tracing over the intricate patterns on it's sides, manipulating it's surface until, at long last, the contraption opens for him.

Soft chimes ring quietly from the box; haunting music plaid to usher in the horror that is to follow.

Breath catching in her throat, Abigail observes as her basement studio begins to change. It's interior seems to melt away, absorbed by a ghostly blackness, a shadow far darker than any produced on the face of the earth. The room becomes warped, black, and sinister. Chains drape down from invisible posts forming in the ceiling; a deep mist swarms inches above the cement floor as it all begins to shake and dilapidate, the dry wall falling out in chunks to reveal the horizontal pattern of the brick and wooden boards holding it up as light, brilliant and ghostly, filters through. The shadows cast across the room seem to dance across Robert's frightened and confused face, as a large spinning column rises up out of the floor like a growing tree. Nailed to the sides of the column by large spikes are pieces of human flesh and raw appendages, bloody and torn. Abigail stares in astonishment as a patch in one of the walls seems to crack and wrench apart like an opening doorway. Robert sinks to the floor in awe as four figures clad in leather enter through it.

Standing out among the grotesque quartet looms a tall and lanky figure, something that _could_ be described as human-looking were it not for the considerable length of it's limbs, and blackened soulless eyes that so freely emanate their cold and emotionless stare as it scans the room curiously. There is nothing human in the maimed face of such a creature, but hints of humanity seem to show in its mangled shape and crooked posture. Whether such hints are illusion or not, Abigail can not tell. This tall figure owns a body that seems extended and stretched like a skeleton, and that has been bathed in dark chains; a series of flexible interlinking metal bands wrapped both tightly and loosely around it's threatening form. Hooks hang down from its back and ribs, off of its forearms and down around its haunches where torn skin oozes fresh blood. Below the hooks and chains the creature seems also to be dressed in a kind of bloodied butcher's apron and black leather robe, which give it the deranged yet familiar appearance of a priest or doctor. Pieces of ashen skin are visible through large tears in the peculiar fabric it wares, and upon noticing this Abigail becomes aware of the fact that the material has actually been _sewn_ into and through the creature's skin at various places around it's body. Overall the fashion in which it is dressed, along with the appearance of it's mutilated body and face give Abigail no clue whatsoever as to what the sex, if any, this creature is. The same goes for the other three.

All in all one thing is constant amongst the group—they are as beautiful as they are ugly. Their unrefined sleekness, mixed with the elegance of their wounds, of the way their bodies are built and how they move about is nothing short or remarkable.

Abigail watches as what she assumes is the leader of the four gracefully saunters forward toward Roger, taking some steps on all fours as it's arms are long enough to touch the floor without it having to bend too far a distance over (it looks like a mal-formed racing hound when it does this). As it comes into the light she observes it more clearly and sees that an intricate grid has been tattooed all across its head. At every intersection of horizontal and vertical axes a long silver pin has been driven through to the skull. Some of its fingers, along with the tip of it's tongue, have been decorated in the same fashion. And it's lips have been drawn back by hooks attached to metal hoops hanging from it's ears, revealing it's long narrow teeth in a perpetual menacing gape which, for a brief instant, reminds Abigail of the Cheshire Cat—although she can not decipher whether it is a true grin or a scowl that is being forced upon this creature. Another thought that comes to her mind, and vanishes just as quickly, is a memory of an old sculpture she'd seen in some forgotten gallery years ago—a sculpture done by an African native of a human head carved from wood and then pierced with dozens, maybe hundreds, of nails and spikes.

Abigail watches the creature with much fascination and for just an instant its eyes move toward the basement door, landing on the keyhole. She becomes momentarily frightened, assuming that somehow it can sense her presence outside the room. But then the feeling is gone and she breathes a quiet sigh of relief as its black eyes move away from the keyhole and set on Roger, who has grown deathly pale at the sight of the lofty beast now hovering over him. He clutches the box, a reaction out of fear that turns his knuckles bone white, and the creature hangs over him, lowering its mighty head until its nose (or what one may have considered to be its nose) is inches away from Robert's face.

All the while Abigail has begun to sketch. To miss such an opportunity of capturing this beast on paper, this demon cursed with nails and chains, would be absolutely senseless.

She watches as it slowly raises its hand toward Robert, opening its claws and revealing its palm which has been tattooed with the same inscriptions as the front side of the puzzle box.

Immediately the box leaps out of Roger's firm grip and lands into the open hand of the monster. It eyes the box momentarily and then returns its attention to Robert, now looking at him with a somewhat perplexed expression.

It speaks.

Somehow, though its lips have been stretched far back and its teeth stick out like a crooked metal bear trap, it speaks.

Robert abruptly vomits upon hearing its voice, and on the other side of the door Abigail goes through a sudden uncontrollable spasm of shuddering.

The tones of its voice can best be described as a combination of deep animalistic growling and high-pitched screaming, echoed in sexless monotone, all combining into a tenor no human could produce or replicate.

"Did you open this box?" it asks quietly, black eyes narrowing.

Robert gargles incomprehensively and the creature cocks its head, apparently annoyed.

It raises its self up so that now it is standing over Robert at its full height. Whereas before it had been hunched and somewhat bent in posture, now Abigail can see how truly gigantic it is—she figures it to be nearly eight or nine feet tall. Frantically she continues to sketch, her hands quickly moving the pencil across the surface of the sketchpad as her eyes perceive everything that is taking place on the opposite side of the door. She can scarcely believe that she is getting such a chance as to see it all.

"Behold." Announces the creature, arms outstretched while the others behind it bow at their introduction. "Behold—we are the Cenobites; hierophants of the Order of the Gash; minions of Leviathan, Lord of the Labyrinth. You have summoned us from the darkest depths of hell. We have come to you, and now we must take you back with us."

Robert begins to scream. Abigail raises a hand to her mouth. She is smiling, though whether out of horror or glee even she does not know. Perhaps it is both; a kind of madness that has just now taken hold during the speech of the depraved demon she is observing through the tiny keyhole.

She gazes in as several of the hooks that wrap around the Cenobite's chest seem to suddenly come alive off their own accord and swiftly snake through the air, landing into the soft flesh of Robert's stomach and face. Presently the chains begin to real him in, dragging Robert forward like a fish caught on a fisherman's line. He goes screaming across the cement floor and into the waiting arms of the Cenobite. The other three behind it are snarling and hooting with wicked delight. Abigail watches in awe, promptly tearing away the first page of the sketchpad and continuing on with a new drawing, this one depicting Robert's current agony. Then another page, depicting all four of the Cenobites in their hideous glory; then another, this one of the five of them in the odd room with the spinning column. More chains, those that hang down from some invisible shaft in the ceiling reach down and hook themselves into Robert's back fat. They lift him into the air, and as the leading Cenobite begins backing away the hooks from the ceiling being to recede. Robert's flesh starts to stretch, starts to rip as the force of the chains begins to pull him, slice and extend him in different directions.

Abigail watches, unable to blink, breathing now completely suspended, as her husband in literally torn apart before her very eyes.

Following this a great and blinding flash of white light—Abigail screams and faints backward.

When next she awakens her sketches are there on the pad, detailing everything she has witnesses, proving all that had occurred was no dream or sick hallucination, but when she peers back in through the keyhole she sees only her studio, plain and unchanged, and it is void of both Robert and the Cenobites . . .

Fin

Author's Note: This story was inspired by none other than Clive Barker's excellent novel 'The Hellbound Heart', which was in fact the book-version of the film 'Hellraiser'. I love those sorts of horror films, and this was actually my first fan fiction of one. It came out rather well, and I'm very proud of myself. Yay. 


End file.
